She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Here she is. Niente. He came to the door and as he opened it a crack, she pushed herself inside urgently. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. " "I'd never set eyes on you again. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings.
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